


Substitute

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9793274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: What they need is a distraction...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sherstrade Month day 12 (and posted slightly late), for the theme of "things you can put in your mouth" and the prompts "pens", "cigarette", and "...something else." I didn't set out to write smut but yeah. It happened.

“Lestrade, would you stop that?”

“What?” Greg lifted his gaze from the file he was reading to see Sherlock glaring at him from the other side of his desk. Or, more specifically, glaring at the pen he had been absently chewing on. Recognising it for the habit it was fast becoming, Greg tossed the offending object onto the desk. “Sorry.”

Sherlock, apparently satisfied, dismissed him and went back to studying the crime scene photos Greg had given him. Greg sighed and returned to his file.

It was no more than five minutes later that Sherlock exploded again.

“Will you please just go and have a cigarette!”

Greg belatedly realised he’d been drumming his fingers tunelessly against the desktop, clearly infuriating Sherlock.

“I’m trying to quit,” he pointed out, as if Sherlock needed reminding. “ _We’re_ trying to quit.”

Sherlock gave a dismissive snort. “You asked for my help, and now all you are doing is distracting me.”

Greg had come to a standstill in his current case. It was a conundrum that had been bugging him for almost two weeks, as had a certain consulting detective, so the logical solution had been to bring the two of them together. He'd sent the rest of his team home for some well-earned recuperation after Sherlock had deemed it worth a look.

Problem was, he could really do with a break himself. Either that, or a damn cigarette.

“Right. Yeah. I’ll stop.” Not quite willing to give into the addiction just yet, he picked up the file with both hands and gave it his undivided attention.

They worked in silence for a while, Greg managing to remain focused on what he was reading to the extent that he spotted an inconsistency in one of the witness statements.

With renewed enthusiasm, he lowered the file to relate his finding to Sherlock, only to immediately forget what he had been about to say.

Sherlock’s lips were pursed around the end of the pen Greg had discarded earlier, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked at the plastic shaft, otherwise absorbed in the case notes spread out before him.

Greg only realised he had been staring when Sherlock looked up and caught him out. It didn't take someone of Sherlock's intellect to deduce what had so thoroughly captured Greg’s attention.

Ignoring the heat he could feel warming his cheeks, Greg schooled his features into his best stern expression, distinctly unimpressed however innocent the action had been. It was impossible to be sure with Sherlock.

He was certain he saw the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitch up in a smirk, but then it was gone.

“Here.” Greg threw the file of witness statements at the bastard in what he knew was an obvious ploy to cover his embarrassment. “Take a look at those.”

Fortunately, Sherlock found them interesting enough that Greg was ignored again in favour of the new information.

Unfortunately, it didn't take him long to reach the conclusion that they were the product of, “Nonsensical and idiotic responses to amateurishly posed questions.”

Ready to leap to the defence of his team, Greg once again slammed to a halt because the bloody pen was back in Sherlock’s mouth and why the fuck did that affect him so much?

“Sod it.”

Wrenching open the bottom drawer of his desk, he rooted around for the battered packet of cigarettes he kept hidden in its depths. If nothing else, he could use it as an excuse to get out of there for a few minutes. Compose himself.

Well, he could have done if the damn pack hadn't been empty.

“Bollocks.” Crushing the packet in his first, he chucked it at the bin. It missed.

Sherlock had watched the whole performance with mild amusement, but Greg steadfastly refused to look at him, scrubbing a hand over his tired eyes instead.

“What you require is something to take your mind off the cravings.” Greg remained hidden behind his hand, but he couldn't help but listen to that smooth baritone. “And I would benefit from something to otherwise occupy my mouth.” There was a brief pause during which Greg did not think about Sherlock's mouth. Not at all. “I can think of one obvious solution.”

Greg risked a peek between his fingers, certain his sleep-deprived and Sherlock-addled mind had sped along the wrong track and was hurtling out of control through the most fantastical realms of his imagination. Or perhaps he'd misheard. Sherlock looked as calm and composed as ever, and not as if he'd just suggested…

“You don’t mean...You didn’t just...That’s…No.”

“I am offering to fellate you, Lestrade. Do you have any objections?”

Greg’s mouth opened and closed several times, his brain telling him that yes, there were a vast number of objections he should be putting forward, but his tongue entirely unable to voice them.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Then Sherlock was in front of him, kneeling between his thighs, fingers deftly working open his belt.

Shock helped Greg find his voice. “We're in the middle of the station, Sherlock!” And was that honestly the biggest issue he had with the situation?

That was a question he decided it was best not to answer.

“There’s no one else here,” Sherlock pointed out, impatient and irritated at having to state such an obvious fact. His fingers didn’t cease, and Greg gasped at the first touch of skin on skin, cool against heated flesh that was already half hard.

“Anyone could—”

The rest of his protest was lost in a breathless groan as he was engulfed by that warm, wet mouth, and it didn’t matter anymore. The Chief Constable herself could have strolled in and Greg wouldn't have noticed. Nor cared.

Sherlock flattened his tongue against the underside of Greg’s cock, slowly drawing upward, the lightest scrape of teeth teasing, stopping at the head to lick and taste before sliding back down, down until his nose was nestled in wiry hair and Greg bumped the back of his throat and _fuck_.

Greg forced his hands to release their death grip on the arms of his chair, unable to take his eyes off the sight of that mop of dark curls bobbing between his legs. Unbidden, his fingers found their way into Sherlock’s hair, stroking and smoothing and then flexing and clenching when he felt the vibration of Sherlock’s hum of approval.

It took every ounce of control Greg possessed not to thrust up into that incredible heat, to sit still and let Sherlock coax him ever closer to climax. It was when Sherlock glanced up and met Greg’s gaze, his usually pale eyes darkened with arousal, that Greg knew he was lost. He gave Sherlock’s hair a tug, a warning, but his only response was to sink lower once more and swallow, throat muscles contracting, tongue curling, pressing, and…

_Christ!_

And still Sherlock remained in place, accepting everything, waiting until Greg was empty, clean, and becoming too sensitive before pulling away. Greg instantly missed the contact, the _closeness_ , but didn’t have to mourn the loss for long. Sherlock had clambered into his lap before he was fully recovered, straddling him as best he could in the confines of Greg’s office chair, watching him silently, that penetrating gaze piercing Greg’s soul.

Whatever he saw must have been acceptable. Perhaps he had been looking for permission. If that was the case, he found it, for Greg found he didn’t have it within him to deny Sherlock anything. He was willing to drop everything for a vague text missive, and now he would give _himself_ too.

He had wanted this for a long time, had sometimes allowed himself to entertain the fantasy, but now he no longer needed to deny his own desires, either.

Sherlock raised a hand to Greg’s face, ran the pad of his thumb across his lower lip, and Greg darted his tongue out to taste. He heard Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath, and for a fleeting moment Greg witnessed rare uncertainty flicker across his face, but then it was gone and Sherlock was kissing him, hard and hungry, his tongue licking into Greg’s mouth, hands clasped around the back of his head and Greg honestly didn't mind being held in place while Sherlock plundered his mouth.

Sherlock’s excess of energy often left him feeling tired, but now it took his breath away.

Slow to recognise his omission, Greg finally went into action. He slid his hands from where they had come to rest quite naturally at Sherlock’s waist to the front of his trousers, working them open. He went slowly, unsure if Sherlock would want it, but he needn’t have worried. Sherlock pressed forward into his touch, urging him on, and the soft sound he made when Greg finally got his hand around his cock was something Greg was not likely to ever forget.

The angle wasn’t ideal, not with Sherlock pushing him back into the chair, but Greg made it work, twisting his wrist in a way that had Sherlock gasping, breaking off the kiss to press his forehead into Greg’s shoulder, hot breath ghosting across his neck.

It didn’t take long. When Greg teased his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock, pressing into the slit, Sherlock went rigid, cock twitching in Greg’s hand as he came.

In the stillness that followed, the only sounds in Greg’s office were the tick of the clock and their ragged breathing. Neither of them made any attempt to move, even when Sherlock grew heavy in his lap, but they couldn’t stay sitting there indefinitely, however much Greg wanted to. Eventually, Sherlock lifted his head, and Greg could almost feel the smirk against his ear.

“Did that satisfy your cravings?”

“Yeah.” Greg’s voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, it did.”

Sherlock lifted himself up, uncharacteristically shy as he straightened his clothing and Greg could only wonder at his instantaneous return to his usual immaculate appearance while Greg tucked himself back in and thanked god he kept a couple of spare shirts in the office.

Still keeping his gaze averted, Sherlock returned to his side of the desk and the spread of case notes, and Greg couldn’t help the little knot of fear that curled in his stomach. What if that had been a one off? A way for Sherlock to distract himself for a few minutes, to quiet the noise of that brilliant mind? Could Greg be satisfied with just that?

It seemed Sherlock picked up on his tension, glancing up and raising an eyebrow.

“Next time you require a distraction, please just say. I will be more than willing to assist.”

For a moment, Greg forgot how to breathe. “Yeah, okay. I will.” He took a breath, took a chance. “If you promise to do the same.”

“Oh, I fully intend to.”

Maybe giving up smoking wasn’t going to be as difficult as Greg had feared.


End file.
